Dangerous Songs
by Dreamwhisper
Summary: A priest relives her worst nightmare, and Illidan Stormrage finds a new tool to tighten his grip on Outland. Crossover with Planescape.
1. Step Into My Parlor

Dangerous Songs

"—and the parrot says, 'Durotar! They're all over the place!'"

A few of the supply caravan's guards snickered; the rest of them groaned. Tascha laughed, more at their reaction than the joke itself, and the joke-teller flashed her grin. "At least someone appreciates the classics."

"There's classic and then there's decrepit, Lindgren." Maylar nudged his horse closer in line, his wolf companion trotting at his heels. He looked somewhat uncomfortable, and Tascha wondered if the guard's leader had spent much time on horseback. Most night elves preferred large cats as mounts. "That one crosses the line."

"All right, then, how about the one with the succubus, the paladin, and the orc warlock?"

Maylar raised an eyebrow. "That crosses a different line." He nodded in Tascha's direction. She frowned slightly, concentrating. "Does it end 'No, but she bakes a great cake'?"

Laughter erupted from all the guards. Maylar's face turned a deeper shade of violet. "I think I've already heard it."

"So I gather," Maylar said dryly. "We should keep it down, we're approaching Three Corners. Last word from Lakeshire reported gnolls there. Fall back into defensive formation."

The guards obeyed, with only a few muttered grumbles. Tascha returned to her assigned place in the middle of the caravan. Maylar fell back along side her. "I'm sorry about that, Corporal," Tascha said. He shook his head, his mouth quirked in a half-smile.

"It's all right. You had more effect on Lindgren than I would have." His tone was light, but to Tascha's mind there was worry underneath the humor. The guards were auxiliary pulled from the lower ranks of Stormwind's defenders and new trainees. Gossip during the trip had it the night elf was a privateer who had gained his rank during the last war against the Burning Legion. Doubtless he had more battle experience than all of them combined. If there was trouble, though, he was only one man. _One night elf_, Tascha corrected herself. Allies or not, few kaldorei liked being compared to humans.

"I have something for you," Maylar said suddenly, reaching inside his vest.

Tascha smiled, taking the perfect red leaf he held out to her. "Thank you! It's beautiful. I love autumn."

His laughter sent a delighted chill up Tascha's spine. "I never would have guessed, the way you kept looking around."

"There's not many trees in the city." Elwynn Forest surrounded Stormwind, but since the events of last year, she was too afraid to leave the city alone, and too proud to ask for company and face her fellow priests' skepticism. Or worse, pity.

"No. It matches the color of your hair."

It was Tascha's turn to blush. She was used to flirting and flattery –vocation or no, she was inevitably seen as female first and priest a distant second – and used to deflecting both with as little offense as possible. But from night elves, flirting seemed hard to brush aside.

"I'm not sure," she said, turning the leaf on its stem. "I think my hair's more brown."

Maylar laughed again. "After we reach Lakeshire, maybe we could look for another." He leaned closer, and beneath the leather-and-mail tang of his armor Tascha caught the wood smoke and spice scent of his skin.

"Corporal! Scouts are back!"

Maylar muttered something in Darnassian Tascha couldn't understand. "Duty calls. Light be with you, Tascha."

"_Elune-adore_, Maylar."

The night elf grinned. "I like your accent." He spurred his horse forward to the front of the caravan. Tascha watched him go, tucking the leaf into her jacket's top button-hole.

"You got a thing for the long-ears, dontcha?"

Tascha turned to face Lindgren. "What are you talking about?"

"Don't play dumb. You won't give a real man a glance and a nod, but you damn near fall out of your shirt for the flower-face." He sneered. "You city girls are all al…"

Lindgren's mouth widened to an O in surprise. Blood spilled from his mouth and he grabbed at the arrow embedded into his ribcage before toppling sideways off his horse. Instinctively Tascha began to slide off her own mount to heal him, but another arrow skimmed past her chest.

"_We're under attack!_"

Tall, lanky forms and shorter, squatter bodies flowed from the surrounding forest like water. The air exploded with the sound of combat. Tascha lay flat against the neck of her horse, urging it to her right, away from the caravan proper. She was trained for healing, not combat, but she couldn't heal what she couldn't see. Let her get to one of the rocky outcroppings, to a vantage point –

A spear sang between her mount's legs. The horse reared, screaming, and it took all Tascha's strength not to be thrown from her saddle. A blue, long-tusked face topped by a shock of red hair filled her sight. She screamed and elbowed it in the jaw. The thing fell back, yelping.

_My elbow hurts. Its hair's the same color as mine_. She had nearly reached the nearest stand of boulders. Everything seemed distant and far away, unreal. Men weren't really shrieking, or bleeding, or being hacked to pieces –

"Tascha!"

Maylar was there along side her, no longer on his horse. Blood covered his arms and shoulders and part of his face. "Get to Lakeshire! Gnolls _and_ trolls, Elune knows how – warn them –

"I can't! I'm supposed to heal – "

"Don't argue! G_o!_" He slapped her horse's rump, and it surged on past the screeching, chaotic knot of guards and attackers, and on down the road.

The battle faded to a distant roar, and then to nothing. How far were they from Lakeshire? She tried to recall the map from the Cathedral's library. The boundary between Elwynn Forest and Lakeshire wasn't a formal one. Three Corners, where the roads to Darkshire, Elwynn and Lakeshire met, was the real border, and they hadn't been that far from Three Corners.

There was a guard post there, right at the junction of the three roads. They could alert the townsfolk, and she could go back to the caravan and help. In fact, she could just make out the triangular 'crossroads' it was named for.

Her horse whinnied and balked, shying off to one side. "Come on, boy -- girl – whichever – we have to keep moving. We're almost…"

The late afternoon breeze shifted, and Tascha smelled it, too: burning wood, and the sweet-sickly stench of roasted flesh. She scanned the tree line, and caught the tell-tale sign of dark smoke curling up into the blue sky.

"No. Light, no."

There wasn't a guard post at Three Corners anymore.

She brought her mount to a stop, shaking. How could this have happened so quickly? The scouts had been out for nearly an hour; if there had been any sign of trouble, they would have returned much sooner. Maylar was right, there weren't supposed to be trolls this close to Stormwind at all. How had they gotten here?

_Gates¸_ answered part of her. _Portals_.

"None of that, Tascha. Not here." She took a deep breath. It had been a year. She had to stop being afraid. "You need to get to Lakeshire. How are you going to do that?"

The smoke came from up ahead, on her right. Tascha turned her horse to the woods on her left. The Redridge Mountains surrounded Lakeshire, with its lowest foothills leading into Elwynn Forest: the road cut through a small pass and continued down to a bridge over Lake Everstill, and into the town proper. From what she remembered of the Bishop's descriptions, the shore opposite the town was used for herding pigs, a few haphazard gardens and the graveyard. Prospectors sought out nodes of copper and tin in the foothills. There had to be trails. If she could get around Three Corners, skirt the mountains' edge….

She let her horse pick the path through the trees, trusting its senses to avoid any deadwood or tangles of brush, straining to catch any noise that would warn of an attack. No birdsong – the attack on Three Corners would have scared aware any birds. Dead leaves crackled under her horse's hooves like gunshot. Once the beast shied away from a stench like an open sewer. She held her breath when the breeze brought again the stink of the burning guard post, and the horse broke into a quick gallop. The rust-red stone of the foothills loomed closer, until at last she could reach out and touch it.

Tascha let go a breath she didn't know she'd been holding. She had made it. She should be able to see Lakeshire right around this curve. She urged her mount to a full-out run.

Something snared her shoulders and yanked her out of the saddle.

Tascha screamed, first in surprise and then in pain as she hit the ground. Stunned, the wind knocked out of her, she lay unmoving, until she noticed the dog-like faces leering down at her.

Instinctively she struck out with one of the few offensive spells in her power. All her attackers abruptly fled, yelping in fear. Tascha wriggled free of the net holding her captive and staggered to her feet. A large lake shimmered in the sunlight, dotted with tiny boats. Beyond it was a village in miniature, picturesque and perfect and out of reach.

Lakeshire.

Her horse was nowhere to be seen. Tascha whispered a quick prayer to ease the worst of her pain, and ran.

Cackling, guttural cries from behind her. Gnolls. She didn't need to look to know they were there. Another net spiraled out over her head. Tascha flinched and it fell to the ground.

Where was everyone? Shouldn't there be people fishing, gossiping with neighbors, working in their gardens? Or was she simply too far away to see them? _Please let there be someone to see me. Anyone. Please. _

A scream, high-pitched and childish, pierced the air, and Tascha barely managed to avoid colliding with the boy standing frozen in her way. She shuddered, gasping for breath and fighting off hysterical laugher. A child. She'd asked for someone to see her, and the Light put a child in her path.

"Run," she whispered, leaning on his thin shoulders. "Tell your guard. Enemies come, gnolls. Trolls. Tell them."

"But –"

"_Run_!"

The boy whirled and fled.

Tascha straightened and turned to face the foe.

…_seven, eight, nine._ There were too many of them, and only one of her. If she were more experienced, more trained, she might have held them off. She wasn't. _I'm going to die here._ To her surprise, she wasn't afraid. Fear meant there was a chance she might live, and she didn't see one. She murmured a shield prayer and prepared to die fighting.

The raw power of the Light struck one dead, holy fire burned another. Her shield-prayer protected her from arrows and spears, though she had to dodge their nets. Her fear spell scattered them again and again, allowing her to a few breaths' respite to gather up her will and focus the powers granted her. They returned in force each time, rushing her from both sides, forcing her to retreat back the way she came.

_They're not trying to kill me_. The thought made her cold. _They're herding me_. She risked a glance toward Lakeshire. The town seemed farther away than ever, but figures swarmed around shoreline, tiny as ants. No rescuer would reach her in time. She would tire soon. She carried a knife, but she was no warrior.

Trolls and gnolls were cannibalistic, and preferred their meals alive and kicking. At least to start.

Tascha called up the fear-spell, throwing all her power behind it, then bolted for the foothills. A boulder or two to hide behind, a few moments to spare and she'd have a quick, clean death.

Yes. There, just ahead – perfect. And….

Tascha slowed, confused. Something tugged at her from the outcropping of rock scattered like giant's teeth along the foothills. It was somehow familiar, like the tune of a song she had heard long ago and never again.

She darted past the boulders she had chosen as her personal tombstone and clambered up the hillside, the _something_'s call increasing in strength and persistence. At last it reached its peak on a small ledge, blotting out her perceptions of anything except its existence. Like the faintest star in the night sky, it hung in mid-air, barely three steps away.

A portal.

The calm acceptance of her own death that had sustained her evaporated in the face of this new choice. Tascha pressed back against the hillside. No. No. She couldn't. Step through and leave her world for Light only knew what existed on the other side? Lose a year or more of her life again? Or worse?

A spear clattered against the rocks. Tascha heard yammering, mingled with deeper, slower voices. A second spear thudded near her feet and several pairs of long, blue arms scrabbled to find handholds on the ledge. An ugly, blue-skinned face smiled at her, a disembodied puppet.

Only two options existed: jump or be eaten.

Tascha jumped.

The world somersaulted and turned inside out.

She landed in a crouch, then collapsed backwards on a cold marble floor as an intangible, dark pressure seized her, immobilizing her. Light blazed from wall sconces and candle stands, blinding in its intensity.

A hiss of indrawn breath. Blinking away pain-tears, Tascha looked up in time to see an elf standing over her. He had to be an elf, though she'd never seen night elves with skin that shade of gold, or dressed that fancy. Another hiss and he had a mace swinging down at her --

"Hold."

The voice was a rich baritone, smooth, precise. The choirmaster would have killed for it. The mace stopped a bare inch from her head. The elf looked past her and said something that sounded almost like Darnassian.

" – out of nowhere. Yes, a cause for concern. But a dead intruder cannot be interrogated."

The elf dipped his head, then glared back at Tascha with narrowed eyes. "I speak your coarse tongue, human filth, because you must understand to answer. And we will have answers!"

"_I_ will have answers, Gathios," said the other dryly. "You are dismissed."

"My lord, is this wise?" A third speaker, female. Tascha heard the rustle of several layers of clothing.

"Wiser than questioning me, Lady Malande."

Silence, then murmured farewells. Gathios bowed to his lord and marched past Tascha as if she didn't exit. More rustling clothing heralded Lady Malande's departure. She heard other footsteps, other voices. She wished she could turn her head and _see_. Part of her was glad she couldn't.

Where was she? Gathios, Lady Malande. The names meant nothing to her. They were elves, but not night elves. High elves? Blood elves? Was she in Horde territory?

The darkness lifted. Tascha sat up and gulped in air, shuddering.

"Young one," the lord said, "do you know who I am?"

Tascha swiveled in his direction and froze.

_O Light._

He was a night elf, at least partly. He was taller and more broadly built than any night elf she had ever seen, and wore only the plain leather pants favored by night elf hunters. His legs ended in hooves. Black hair was caught up in the familiar top knot so many night elves sported. A blindfold hid his eyes and did nothing to mask their faint green glow. Horns sprang from his forehead, curled back toward leather wings draped around him like a cloak. Runes covered his bare chest and shoulders. Despite his demonic transformation, his face still possessed the handsomeness of his native race. She had heard stories, seen woodcuts in histories, but those descriptions paled before the reality.

He walked toward her. "Do you?"

Tascha nodded, the only movement sheer terror would allow.

"I didn't hear you."

"Illidan Stormrage," she whispered.

"I have another name. Do you know that one as well?"

_The Betrayer._ Tascha said nothing, nodded again.

A smile ghosted across former demon-hunter's lips. "A show of wisdom for one so lacking in years. For your sake, continue to be wise. Who are you?"

"Tascha of Stormwind." Her voice shook. She couldn't help it.

One finely-drawn eyebrow quirked. "Your parents named you for a Kalimdor songbird? Humans grow more insipid with each generation." He tilted his head. "You have the feel of the Light about you, _Taszhia_ of Stormwind. What were your duties in the Cathedral?"

"I…I helped in the infirmary. Mostly I worked in the library."

"A nursemaid and a bookworm. Quite unusual for an assassin. But I do not think you are sent by my enemies. How did you arrive here in my council chamber?"

He wouldn't believe her, but what choice did she have? "Through a gate, in Lakeshire. In the Redridge Mountains."

"There is only one portal to the Outlands on Azeroth, and you were far from it." The glow of his eyes intensified. "Who created this portal for you?"

"No one. It was just there."

Illidan Stormrage stared at her. "Was it, now?" he asked softly. "You are not a skilled liar, priest, but for some reason I suspect you are not telling me everything. Perhaps I can persuade you to do so.

"Be seated." He gestured to a marble stool in front of a desk strewn with papers and tomes. Tascha all but ran to it and sat down, for the first time aware of her surroundings. The desk had an immense, throne-like chair behind it, with several more chairs carefully arranged in front. Shelves lined the walls. Everything was in dark colors but made from the finest materials. _It looks sort of like the Archbishop's office_, Tascha thought wildly.

"I find interrogations go more smoothly when all involved are comfortable." He smiled; Tascha wanted to hide. "For one of us, at least."

He folded his arms. "Start from the beginning of how you found this portal. Leave nothing out."

Tascha did. He remained impassive through her recounting of the attack on the caravan and its aftermath. "So," he said when she had finished, "you chose to risk the unknown instead of facing greater numbers than you could defeat."

"It seemed the safer choice. Relatively speaking."

"Relatively speaking, indeed," Illidan mused. "I'm pleased with your cooperation so far, but I have a question that may change that. How did you sense this portal?"

"I don't know," Tascha said slowly. "I just did." Why_ had _she known it was a gate, anyway? She wasn't a mage.

"You just did," he repeated, "your previous experience with portals aside? I find one statement of yours in that rendering most interesting. 'I didn't want to, I was afraid it would be like the last time.' What 'last time'? And where?"

"I was on my way to Northshire Abbey. I got tired of the road, wandered into the woods." Tascha knotted her hands together. He wouldn't believe this. No one did. Like everyone else, he'd think she was crazy. Or lying, and Illidan the Betrayer would pen her name in the Dead Book for certain. "There was a tree that had fallen and was leaning against another – they formed an arch. I walked underneath it." A moment's fancy, pretending it was the secret entrance to some lost elven ruin. "And I was somewhere else.

"A city. Sigil."

"There is no such city on Azeroth."

"Sigil isn't on Azeroth. It isn't on any world. It's in the center of…" Tascha gestured helplessly. "Everything. The people who live there call it the Cage or the City of Doors, because it has gates that can take you anywhere, anywhere at all if you know how, but not everyone – only Sigil's ruler, the Lady of Pain, knows them all, she can send anyone through them or keep them out, even keep out gods, people said. I didn't know how to get home, I stayed there for a year, one of ours – I counted the days, I kept track, they can say I was gone less than a week, but it was _a year!_"

Her voice cracked. Tascha gripped the edges of the stool, breathing fast.

Illidan looked at her.

"Drink." A crystalline goblet appeared in front of her face; it held pure water, cold enough to be painful. At the moment, she didn't care: her throat felt desert-dry. "You are on the edge of hysteria and no good to either of us. Calm yourself, and let me see if I understand you."

"The City of Doors…" Illidan clasped his hand behind his back as he circled her. Tascha didn't dare turn on her seat to follow him. She wasn't sure she could have. "So-named for the portals it holds that connect it to other worlds, other universes."

"Yes."

The sound of a leather whip cracking, loose hairs brushed her face; Illidan had opened his wings. "Portals without number, and each dependant on a different method of operation?"

"Yes."

He was suddenly in front of her, the glow of his sightless eyes capturing her own. "You believe what you say, Tascha of Stormwind. That is in your favor.

"But I am not sure I believe it."

"What use would it be to lie?" Tascha jumped off the cold marble stool, still holding the goblet. "Anything else would make a better story –"

"Hush," the Betrayer said mildly. "And sit back down. You're being rude." He waved a hand. The sensation of oppressive darkness that had kept her pinned in place earlier folded about her. Tascha hopped back on the stool and curled in on herself as much as possible. The darkness' touch pained her spirit, she realized, not her body. She wished it did. Physical agony would have been easier to endure.

"What I meant," Illidan went on, pacing again. "is that I am not sure I believe what you were told _is_ the entire truth. Someone must have realized the power to be had in possessing as much knowledge of as many gates as possible --"

Tascha spoke without thinking. "The Lady of Pain has that."

"Yes, you mentioned her." Illidan stopped, rubbing his chin in a distressingly human way. "No one challenges her? No rivals?" Tascha shook her head

. "An undisputed ruler who can send anyone she wishes through any gate in her domain or bar them from entering, even gods, if what you claim is accurate. I wonder if she realizes …does she see…."

His voice trailed off into mutters she could barely hear. He was talking to himself, not her. Tascha sipped more water and tried not to speculate on what would happen to her.

"She must. She sent you back, didn't she?" Illidan spun around and strode over to her. "Didn't she?"

"I don't re –"

"Don't lie to me, _Taszhia_," Illidan said softly. "It is exceptionally bad manners in a guest."

"Yes." The memory of what she had never told any of the few people she'd taken into confidence welled up in her mind: cool inhuman fingers on her forehead as she stood motionless and unharmed by the ruler of Sigil's will, power coursing through her, then blackness and the mountainside of the Valley of Heroes.

"She did more than that, your Lady. She gave you a farewell gift."

"I don't think so…all I had when I came back was the clothes I wore."

Illidan laughed; to her surprise, he sounded disturbingly like Maylar. "Not a visible gift. At least, not visible to you. But _I_ see it clearly, on your skin and in your soul. You did indeed 'feel' a portal, because that is what she gave you: the power to sense them and where they go.

"And, perhaps, how to close them. I'd hazard a guess your erstwhile hostess expects you to do so. If , as I suspect, she wishes to keep her domain free of our world's influences, how better than to have someone else do the work for her?"

Tascha shook her head. The Lady could keep out anyone He was wrong. He had to be wrong.

"I am not wrong. There are beings who exist who do not require portals to travel between worlds. " There was an edge in his tone. "The Lady of Pain may know this, or she may not. Yet. Remove your jacket and shirt."

"What?"

"This is not an attempt on your virtue," Illidan snapped. "I offer you proof of what I say. Remove them and hold out your arms."

Flushed with embarrassment, Tascha obeyed, struggling with her jacket's buttons. The leaf Maylar had given her drifted to the floor. Her jacket landed on top of it, followed by her acolyte's blouse. She shivered, wishing she'd worn a heavier chemise.

"Now, _Taszhia,_ behold your true plumage."

The glow of Illidan's eyes deepened, transfixed her. Their light was almost solid, tactile, coursing over her like a lover's touch. A sudden, answering glow shone from her body in a golden nova, and disappeared.

Tascha gaped. Heart-shaped leaves, the blue-green of a perfect gem, twined up her arms from wrist to shoulder and across her collar bones.

"Razorvine," Tascha said in disbelief. "She tattooed me with razorvine. Though it's black –"

Illidan snorted. "The pattern doesn't matter, the power does. This power you have blazed like a beacon the moment you tumbled into my realm. It's the only reason you still live." His hand slid over her arms, not quite touching her.

"Magnificent." Greed and admiration spilled from Illidan's voice. "Exquisite. Arcane magic unlike any I have ever seen, crafted for a single purpose, hidden from ordinary sight. Did she expect you to go on in ignorance until some doddering greybeard at the Mages' Tower or dream-struck fool in the ruins of Dalaran noticed you, your Lady? Or were you to unlock its secrets on your own through trial and error?

"Well. No matter."

A sharp-taloned finger raised her chin. Illidan smiled down at her.

"You are going to be very helpful to me, little bird."


	2. MockBeggar Hall

"A grand, ostentatious house, where no hospitality is afforded, neither is any charity given." – _Dictionary of Phrase and Fable, _1898

Tascha's toes were cold. She must have slipped off her shoes. She felt around for them, her feet sliding across moss-soft carpet. Carpet? Oh, Light, she'd fallen asleep in the library again. _And_ she'd snitched one of the bishop's reading pillows, judging by what her head rested on. Brother Kristoff would box her ears but good.

Tascha pushed away from the desk and tumbled out of bed.

Bed?

Disoriented, Tascha struggled to stand, action hampered by the sheets tangled around her legs. Finally kicking and clawing her way free, she gathered them up and flung them away with difficulty. Made of no material she recognized, they clung to her bare arms.

"Where's my jacket?" Tascha looked down at herself. She had on her chemise, pants and boots. "My shirt?"

Memory flooded back. The caravan. The attack. The gate.

The Betrayer.

Tascha covered her eyes. No dream, no hallucination. This was real.

_I guess he found someplace to put me_. That had been his concern at the end of his questioning. "You cannot roam the Black Temple on your own, and I need to consider which of my allies will best suit your care." Illidan had dropped his hold and stood back, eyeing her thoughtfully. "Kael'thas' followers call on the Light after a fashion, but they have no love for humans. He wouldn't do anything foolish, but the same cannot be said for all under his banner. The Broken are a possibility… do you enjoy raw fish?"

His mouth had curled at her bewildered refusal. "That eliminates Lady Vashj and her naga. Enough. The details will be managed. For now --"

Illidan took hold of her wrist, his hand engulfing her own. Tascha started. His skin felt firm and smooth, a bit warmer than normal but not unpleasantly so -- just like any other night elf she had shaken hands with. He smelled of woodsmoke and musk.

Almost like Maylar.

She recoiled in disgust, from the comparison as much as the touch that prompted it. Illidan's half-smile twisted in a snarl and the darkness pressed down on her soul. Then nothing, until she woke up here.

Wherever here was. Tascha studied her surroundings. The bed was a wooden circular platform wide enough to hold three people. The mattress and pillows were covered with the same impossibly clingy material of the sheets. Golden, many-armed candelabra stood on either side, candle stubs still visible here and there. Light, she noticed, came from a chandelier overhead, and not much of that. A small low table with two cushioned chairs on her right, crafted from the same material as the bed; her blouse and jacket lay on one of the seats. An armoire and an intricately carved dressing table with a mirror were on the left; tiny glass and crystal decanters and containers dotted its surface. Everything was in shades of azure, gold and scarlet.

Despite the decadence, the room held a fustiness of neglect. Tascha dressed, wrinkling her nose at the lingering odor of old incense and something that reminded her vaguely of a sewer. She walked to the wall across from the foot of the bed and followed it to her right.

The room itself was circular – she hadn't noticed before. The walls were black marble. No windows.

No door.

Tascha stopped at the point she had begun. There had to be a door. She retraced her path, twitching aside wall hangings.

Nothing.

_Stay calm, Tascha. Stay calm_. There had to be a reason why there wasn't a door. She just couldn't think of one.

She swallowed, suddenly aware she was thirsty. And hungry. Other bodily needs were making their presence known as well. She went around the room a third time. It was too much to hope for the fancy water-closets popular among the nobility and the Dwarven district, but there should be a garderobe, a chamber pot, something.

This search was as fruitless as the others. Finally, panic and pressure increasing at equal rates, Tascha stood again at the foot of the bed and called out, "Hello?"

She looked up at the ceiling. Was she being watched? "Hello? Can anyone hear me? Anyone?"

She counted to twenty, then again. Still no answer. She was trapped. Or worse abandoned. Frustration boiled over.

"_Master Stormrage!"_

" 'Master' would have sufficed."

Tascha stumbled back, bumping against the bed-platform. There was no smoke, no lightning-flash glow. He was simply there, in front of her. In the room's half-light, his night elf heritage was oddly more prominent. His wings were barely visible, and the horns...she'd seen worse in Sigil. At least they weren't blood-stained.

"Do not use that phrase again. I am Lord of Outland, and will be referred to as such."

_As you wish, Master Such_. Tascha bit her lip to keep hysterical laugher from escaping. This wasn't Sigil – no endlessly diplomatic employer stood at hand to soothe wounded egos and chastise cheeky staff in a single turn of phrase. Some stories said demons could read minds. She hoped the Betrayer couldn't.

He folded his arms, eyes narrowing to green slits. "Is that understood?"

"Yes, lord." If he had read her mind, the only answer that would assuage his pride and assure her continued breathing.

"Now. What is so pressing that you dare to summon me like a common innkeeper?"

"I apologize, lord, but I was … " _Alone. _"…worried." The excuse sounded pathetic even to her. "I couldn't find the door, and I have to -- " Tascha twisted her hands together."I mean, I couldn't find a …"

She let the sentence wither away and die.

"I see." His lips curled in a half-sneer. "Behind the purple drapery you'll find what you need."

"Thank you." Tascha whirled away. The wall hanging described was between the armoire and the dressing table. She twitched it aside; an archway opened onto another room that definitely not been there before. She ducked inside.

No garderobe here, but engineering genius would have brought the gnomes' High Tinker to tears. After tending to business, Tascha looked around while she washed her hands. Besides the necessary, there was the inset bathing pool that looked as if it could fit ten people. Carved screens carefully placed for privacy from outside. Shelves held towels and other supplies (she had used the crumbled remnant of an herbal soap). All were beautifully made, but the main room's aura of self-indulgent luxury was missing. Illidan had mentioned blood elves; she could believe she'd woken up in their handiwork. Who had designed it? Orcs or trolls didn't believe in building fancy, from what she'd heard, and she doubted demons cared. Why had it been sealed off?

"Perhaps your impertinence is to my benefit," the lord of Outland said when she returned. "It's been some time since I faced one of your calling and its defenses. I expected you to remain unconscious longer, but you proved me wrong." He sounded both annoyed and intrigued. "An effect of your Lady's gift, possibly. It's something to consider." He seized her wrist. "Later."

A heartbeat of _nothing_, then they were elsewhere.

Tascha swayed, dizzy. They were in a room much, much larger – close to the size of the Cathedral's main hall -- than one she had woken up in, but similar: lavish, deep-colored drapery and furnishings everywhere. She could smell sandalwood and wine, and the remnants of masculine cologne.

"Lord Illidan, what a delightful surprise!"

The voice was warm and suggestive and inviting. The speaker rose from her couch and bowed deeply to Illidan. "But I haven't cleaned," she added mournfully as she straightened, gesturing to the laded trays on either side of her couch and clasping her other four hands at her waist. She wore a layered skirt and brief bodice made of red and gold silks, with an ornate headdress. Her height matched the Betrayer's and her eyes were glowing silver.

"You make your surroundings beautiful simply by your presence, Mother Shahraz."

"You flatter me, my lord."

"I have a request."

"As you desire, always."

"Lycandaul's quarters have been reassigned to my latest servant. See that they are tended to."

Mother Shahraz appeared to notice Tascha for the first time. Delicate eyebrows half the length of Tascha's hand quirked. "My girls will be so disappointed."

"Not that type of servant," Illidan replied dryly. "_Taszhia_ has other duties."

"Poor Lycandaul the Dull. His bones are barely dust, and now they're being swept away." Silver eyes looked Tascha up and down, and finally met hers.

If she could have, Tascha would have bolted from the room. Beneath the veneer of charm lay overwhelming hatred and an urge to destroy, an urge that could never be satisfied. In Stormwind, she had listened to priests debate the rationale of the Burning Legion from the last war. She wished she was back there now, so she could them the truth: there wasn't one.

"The hair fits, but her namesake has blue eyes, not brown. Still, a pretty little mortal. Well-mannered. Here we are, monopolizing the conversation, and not a peep from her."

"I'm sorry, ma'am," Tascha heard herself say, "I'm too terrified to peep."

Mother laughed, delighted. "Keep her alive as long as possible, Lord Illidan. She's amusing. What did you say her duties were?"

"They're not in your specialty, I assure you, Mother Shahraz. You will of course notify me when your task is done."

_He doesn't want her to know about me_. Tascha felt a chill up her spine that had nothing to do with her present company. Politics were messy. She had managed to avoid being ensnared in them at the Cathedral through constant courtesy and keeping a low profile. _So why are we here?_ There was too much she didn't know, too much she didn't understand.

The demon dipped her head. "Of course, my lord."

Another heartbeat of _nothing_, another room.

The dizziness was worse. Tascha's knees buckled. Only Illidan's grip kept her upright. Her vision blurred; everything sounded far away. What was happening to her? Jumping through the portal hadn't been this debilitating. She tried to focus her thoughts to work a spell, reaching for her inner Light. Darkness closed in around her and she cried out.

Then there were cool on her forehead, familiar warmth spreading through her from their feather-soft touch. Her sight cleared and the vertigo disappeared as if it had never existed. _Light, Light, o blessed Light…_

"There now," someone cooed in overdone sympathy. "Is that better?"

Tascha's head snapped up. Her benefactor smiled at her beatifically, brushing spun-gold hair behind long, slanted ears; she stank of roses and jasmine. Tascha hated her on sight. Something vile peered at her from behind the other's green eyes. The blood elf sat back on her heels and giggled, pulling on a mailed glove. "I think it's upset," she said over her shoulder.

"Enough, Ylisse." Another blood elf moved intoTascha's line of sight. He looked familiar, but she couldn't put a name to him. "Help her stand."

"Yes, my Prince." Ylisse lifted Tascha to her feet before she could protest. The blood elf stepped back, wrinkling her nose. "I need to bathe." A spattering of laughter answered her.

"Kael'thas, bring your bitch to heel before I do. I didn't summon you for a show of what passes for wit among your Sunfury blood knights." Tascha felt a tiny blossoming gratitude for the Betrayer's intervention.

_No one likes to see their pet project mocked._ The gratitude died on the vine.

"I do apologize, Lord Illidan." Ylisse demurely lowered her eyes.

"If you speak again, I'll rip out your tongue."

"I am here, as you requested last night, Lord," Kael'thas said smoothly. "I understand the matter is of some urgency."

So this was the leader of the high elves – the high elves who called themselves blood elves, at least. He didn't much resemble the paintings rescued from the wreckage of Dalaran.

"Yes. I want you to choose three of your Sunfury and deploy them to the Temple. Don't include that one." A wing snapped out at Ylisse. "She annoys me."

"As you command, Lord. Their tasks?"

"Whatever I assign them. Guarding my newest acquisition, if you must know."

Kael'thas looked at her. His gaze was speculative, but not malicious. Or mocking, or condescending, or calculating. He saw a person, not a tool. "I see."

"You don't, but you will. We will discuss this further, and in private. For now, you are dismissed. Don't bother cleaning up. She hasn't eaten yet."

Kael'thas and his guard bowed to Illidan. After a pause, Kael'thas bowed to her; not as deeply as to Illidan, but a bow nonetheless. Tascha tried to return it; Illidan's sudden grip on her shoulder kept her still. Kael'thas gave no sign he had noticed, but turned and led his guard through a curtained side entrance.

"You may partake." Illidan steered her toward what she had earlier missed: a table set with platters of breads, sweet rolls, bacon, fresh fruit, pitchers of water and juice all scattered among half-empty plates. "We need to continue our interview from last night, but I would be a bad host – a bad lord – if I neglected your needs."

She couldn't hear any mockery in his words. In a way, that was worse than open humiliation. It was whispered among the night elves that the Betrayer had gone mad because of a woman. Tascha didn't know about the woman part, but she could believe the rest. She sat down, scraped the contents of the least-used plate onto one of its fellows, and refilled it. Tascha resisted the urge to grab with everything within reach. After days of dried meat and hard bread, the aroma of fresh-cooked food was like a punch to the gut.

She ate slowly, aware of Illidan behind her. She looked around, wanting a distraction. The floor was carpet in red and had a gold rug with a red phoenix. Cushions in red and gold and blue were clumped little groups, by small floating lamps or small low tables. The only blue or green thing in the entire room was a tiny little suit of armor that trotted frantically between two piles of cushions. It was pointless and whimsical and utterly adorable.

Illidan's wings flared impatiently. Tascha thought of people watching their pets feed and winced. She poured a goblet of juice, gulped it down.

And choked. The 'juice' burned her throat like cinnamon fire.

_Wine! _Tascha filled another goblet with water and drained it. _Who has _wine_ for breakfast?_

"The blood elves do." Illidan walked around the table to face her. "As did their ancestors the Highbourne, and no doubt, certain of your own nobles and leaders. I didn't pry into your thoughts, your expression spoke volumes. Tell me, Tascha of Stormwind, is there something you wish to ask? Something you failed to ask before?"

"I want to go home." No hysterics, no pleading. What good would they do? "I swear, I will never tell anyone about… this." She rubbed her forearm. No one would believe her if she tried. They hadn't when she explained Sigil to them.

"No."

Illidan closed the distance between them. "You have intruded upon my realm, and your service is your punishment for that crime. Compensation, if you will. I understand some of your leaders practice that method of justice.

"You will learn to use the power vested within you at my command. Do as you are told and live. Refuse and others will suffer for it: your kind has _secret _camps across my realm. Try to cheat me out of your powers by heroically taking your own life and you will learn there are worse things than dying."

Tascha hid her face in her hands. No rescue. No escape, not even through death – she couldn't let others die needlessly. She was trapped. And what he demanded was the impossible.

"You said this was arcane magic," she said, latching onto one last desperate hope. "I can't use arcane mage. I'm not a mage!"

"By the time I am done with you, you will be."

"It takes years of study to learn magic!"

"Not for everyone. There are those who wield magic through their body and their will. The book-obsessed call them sorcerers, claim they're undisciplined and weak. A false claim. I know from experience. I was a sorcerer, before I sought different paths to power." He sat on the edge of the table, arms folded: the lord, casually taking his ease. "You can do the same. In truth, you have an advantage I did not. You know the power is there and will not have to waste precious time ransacking your soul for it.

"An advantage you'll need to protect yourself. Do you wonder why you were so weakened by your teleportation?"

He paused, obviously wanting an answer. Tascha nodded.

"I believe it's because of the clash between the nature of the fel magic I used, and the Light-given power you have. It seems to vary, as well. You were barely able to speak in front of Mother Shahraz and her proximity seems to have caused your recent collapse. Yet you have no difficulties around me."

"You're not like her."

Illidan looked at her sharply. "What do you mean by that?"

Tascha grasped to put her impressions into words. "You don't feel – you don't want – "

"I am not a true demon, and I am not in the sway of the Burning Legion, if that is what you are attempting to convey." His gaze never left hers. "I am unique."

His wings opened, closed. "As I was saying," he went on, standing to pace, "you will need to use this power to shield yourself from the pain Mother Shahraz and her ilk cause you. You aren't strong enough to use the Light in that fashion, and never will be."

Tascha glanced away, gripping the tablecloth in her fist. She couldn't look at him, or she'd do something stupid.

"Until then you will have to be moved under escort. The Sunfuries will share that task with the Broken. There is still the question of your immediate care, but Lady Malande should be willing to deal with that." He stopped, cocking his head as if listening.

"Ah. Mother Shahraz has finished." He held out his hand. "One last discomfort, _Taszhia_, and you will be back in your nest."

This time, the vertigo threatened to bring up everything she had eaten. Keeping her eyes closed helped somewhat. She felt Illidan shift, his wings stirring her hair as they flexed.

Then she heard him laugh. Tascha opened her eyes

The bed had been made. The candelabra were full. The armoire and dressing table had been dusted, the mirror polished, the table and the chairs cleaned. The earlier fustiness was gone; the air smelled faintly of lemon. The purple drapery was tied to one side. Pillars lined the walls, curving up to meet at the ceiling and linked by fanciful horizontal trim in the shape of tree limbs. Suspended on chains from the ceiling hung a little divan.

Tascha stared in disbelief. It wasn't. It couldn't be. But it was.

A birdcage.

"She even gave you a perch." Illidan leaned against one of the pillars, arms folded, his amusement plain.

"Mother is right, little bird. You _are_ entertaining."


	3. Silver and Gold

**Author's Note: ** Thank you for all the comments, and for being so patient for this next chapter: life kicked me to the curb seven ways to Sunday, these last six months. (And I did change my user-name.)

_Clear away distracting thoughts. Block out the external world. Focus your mind inward, and find the path to the Light._

Tascha grimaced and opened her eyes.

The Betrayer had left as abruptly as he arrived, saying only he would have her sent for, that she should prepare. Not knowing what else to do, she had turned to the meditations taught her by the Cathedral's teachers. Every attempt failed, the only results an ache behind her eyes and an increasing frustration and despair. She fell asleep at some point – true sleep, not the unconsciousness inflicted on her before – and had nightmares of the attack on the caravan, with Illidan replacing the gnolls and Maylar. Upon waking she tried the meditations again, with the same lack of success.

She sat up on the bed, hugging her knees to her chest. Worry and fear alone weren't a hindrance. An aura of corruption and malice twined around her whenever she sought the Light.

And she was expected to master an entirely new, foreign magic – if that were possible at all -- in this environment.

Escape was impossible, at least for the moment, and a rescue was out of the question. No one in the caravan knew she was here. The portal that had led her here might return her to Lakeshire if she could find it again. Or it might not. She couldn't worry about that now. Staying alive, learning as much as she could about this power supposedly had as well as her captors – those had to be her priorities right now.

What did she know of the Black Temple? Nothing. She knew more about Outland itself, and that was little enough. Since the reopening of the Dark Portal, both Alliance and Horde had moved forces there in an effort to keep the Burning Legion at bay. That much was fact. Paladins and priests from holy orders, human and otherwise, visited the Cathedral of Light daily, searching for information and leaving behind rumors and speculation of what existed beyond the Dark Portal. Versions of those always trickled out to the lower orders. Tascha believed no matter how fantastic they were, they had to possess a kernel of truth.

She chewed her lip. That applied not only to stories of Outland, but of its Lord as well. Accounts of the recent wars mentioned his release from an underground prison and his attempts to destroy the Lich King, but little more than that. The night elves didn't speak of the Betrayer. A chapbook of legends about the War of the Ancients was the closest thing to a written history of him by his own native people. Supposedly the book had been banned by the Temple of the Moon. Brother Kristoff kept the Cathedral's copy locked in the Rare and Unusual cabinet. Sneaking it out had cost Tascha two months' worth of free time and a week on bread and water.

The woodcuts of him had been the best rendered, however.

Tascha ran a hand through her hair. She needed concrete information, not pretty art. Besides legends, all she had to go on was the Betrayer himself, and she hadn't seen him long enough to pick out a pattern of behavior. _ He's concerned he's not being a good lord one moment and making jokes at my expense the next. _ She rubbed her eyes; the ache was finally starting to fade. _Not that different from some human rulers_.

He wasn't human. She could not afford to forget that.

A flash of red on the far wall had Tascha scrambling off the bed. As she watched, lines appeared in the marble, gradually becoming more intricate and solid until they formed a fanciful birdcage door.

Tascha's mouth went dry. This must be –

The door opened.

"Lord Illidan awaits."

No blood elves, these three guards. Shorter, stockier, blue-skinned with hooves and face tentacles, they were repulsive and somehow familiar.

"You're -- you can't be draenei," Tascha said, disbelieving. Draenei were strong and proud and beautiful as statues. The beings in front of her were a mockery of those qualities.

"We are Broken," said the first. Tascha guessed he was the leader: the other two kept a respectful distance behind him. . He stepped to one side. "Come. You should not keep Lord Illidan waiting."

A wide, curling ramp of black and red marble led away presumably to the floor Tascha couldn't see from this angle. The Broken fell into formation, the leader in front, the rest behind her. Tascha gazed up and around, awash in a giddy sense of _space_ and freedom. Thin, watery light streamed through the Temple from no source Tascha could pinpoint. What she could see of the Temple was immense: balconies, staircases, pillar-lined corridors, alcoves.

Tascha glanced back at her personal prison. The door was still there. The leader made a horrid rattling noise. Tascha began to ask if he was ill, then she realized he was clearing his throat. She started walking.

The ramp corkscrewed down in tight turns. To her relief the guard's leader kept to the middle, well away from the sides; it lessened the vertigo. Once at ground level, they set off across a courtyard easily the size of Stormwind's main square.

Tascha had no chance to truly look around; the guards' pace was too swift. Still, she noticed archways opening on corridors and suites, doorways to open rooms, nooks with benches or cushions, even gardens with fountains. But she also noticed who peopled those rooms and corridors and gardens.

Demons.

Demons of all kinds. Some she had seen in Stormwind, under the command of the Alliance's warlocks: imps, voidwalkers, succubae. Most she hadn't. There were orcs as well, and even blood elves, but mostly demons. Standing guard, or patrolling, or performing ritual around patterns set in the floor. She couldn't tell what they were doing. She didn't want to know.

The aura she sensed in her prison was blatant here, sinking into her soul with each step. She wanted to lash out with all the power she had, and she wanted to run. She could do neither. Finally she froze in place, shaking. A guard shoved her. She ignored him.

"I can't," she whispered. "I can't, I can't, I can't –"

"Be strong." The leader gripped her arm, steadying her. "We, too, suffered. In time you will grow accustomed just as we have, and be pained no longer."

_I don't want to be strong!_ _I don't want to get used to this!_ _Whatever happened to you, I don't want it to happen to me!_ She drew a deep breath and nodded. After a moment the leader nodded in return, and they continued on.

They crossed the cavernous hall and climbed stairs, passed through smaller halls to more stairs and corridors and still more stairs. Remembering the path they traveled was impossible. Tascha didn't even try. She kept her eyes fixed on the lumbering figure in front of her and her mind focused on taking one step, then the next and the next and the next….

Three more times the malignity of the Temple overwhelmed her, and the lead guard urged her on as he had before. The last time she collapsed to her knees. He pulled her to her feet.

"You must do this," he said, silvered eyes staring in to hers. "There is no choice." He paused. "We are not far."

_Don't patronize me_, Tascha wanted to say. It wasn't worth it. She shrugged and looked away.

They continued on.

The leader was true to his word. Minutes later the little group stopped before twin doors. Immense and ornate, they reached from floor to ceiling. The door handle and plate seemed mere decoration; Tascha wondered vaguely how anyone could move them at all.

To Tascha's eyes the leader did or said nothing, but the doors swung inward. The hall beyond was lined with columns, with what appeared to be mosaics on the walls. The guards marched her through a side archway and down a corridor to another set of doors. Not as tall as the outer set, and made of plain, dark grey metal, they were somehow more imposing.

Tascha swallowed. Her chest felt tight, and the apathy that had gripped her a heartbeat earlier gave way to fear.

The doors swung out. The Outland's self-proclaimed Lord stood in the middle of the room.

"Well done, Akama. Return to your previous post."

The leader and his fellows genuflected before turning on their heels and trooping away if she didn't exist.

"Come in, Tascha of Stormwind. Weren't you taught not to lurk in doorways?"

Tascha forced herself to walk, not scurry. No sooner had she crossed the threshold than the doors slammed shut behind her. She jumped.

The Betrayer's mouth curled in a half-smile.

"Sit." One wing snapped out, indicating a chair not unlike the ones in her prison. Tascha sat down.

"Drink what's on the table next to you."

Another crystal goblet like the one he had summoned from thin air, filled with amber liquid. Tascha remembered the breakfast wine and hesitated.

"It is juice this time," Illidan said dryly. "Mostly juice. I had Lady Malande prepare and steep certain herbs for it to help you regain your strength. The walk here was agony, was it not?"

Tascha nodded.

"_I didn't hear you_. Unless I indicated otherwise, Tascha of Stormwind, all your answers to me are to be vocal. Is that understood?"

"Yes, lord." Her voice sounded faint, wispy.

"Good." He smiled. Tascha took a hasty sip of the juice. "And your answer to my question is…?"

"Yes, lord"

"Good." His smile faded. "Pain is an excellent teacher. Mortals especially learn quickly to do what they must in order to avoid it. There are other methods, but few motivations as effective –"

Irritation crossed his face.

"I need to leave you unattended, little bird. Do _not_ move from that seat."

Illidan vanished.

Tascha huddled into the chair's cushions. As if she could move. Perhaps he had shielded her in some way, perhaps one gulp of juice was enough, but the terror-filled pain was fading. Not enough for her to make a mad dash for the door, however.

Even if she could, where would she go?

She sipped more of the juice, trying to place its origin. It tasted like apples crossed with honey melon. Something native to Outland, or an obscure corner of Azeroth? Had the herbs added by Lady Malande influenced it as well?

For lack of anything better to do, she studied the room as she drank. It was half again the size of her prison. There were two more chairs like hers, bookshelves, a divan the twin of Mother Shahrazz', a desk in one corner. Wall shelves held more books, interspersed with crystal formations, statuary she didn't like to look at too long, and in a small alcove a skull. The light came from globes hanging from chains and candles set in wall sconces. The floor was covered in a plush dark red and brown carpet, resembling fur. The same cologne from Mother Shahrazz' chamber lingered in the air. With the exception of the divan, the furnishings reminded her of night elven décor. Two heavily curtained archways indicated other rooms. Tascha thought she could make out the shape of a bed and averted her eyes.

"There will be no more interruptions."

Illidan's reappearance nearly made her choke on the last of the juice. She swallowed hard and set the glass down, hoping he didn't expect a response.

"Unless the cretin who does so has a death-wish." His wings mantled before settling. "Ah. You finished. If you need more, speak. I do not believe in mishandling tools which cannot be replaced – and you, Tascha of Stormwind, certainly number among those. Don't presume this means I will tolerate disobedience. Punishment is not mishandling."

She hated being referred to as a thing, not a person. Tascha imagined her prison as a velvet-lined box from which Illidan removed and returned her to at whim, and swallowed the urge to scream. She picked up her discarded glass instead.

"I think I could use more, please, lord."

The glass refilled.

"I told you to prepare. What did you do?" Illidan asked as she drank.

"I tried the meditations taught me at the Cathedral." She wished her voice didn't sound so soft. So weak. Weren't confronters of evil supposed to speak in clear, ringing tones?

_You're not exactly _confronting_ him, _part of her whispered. _You're going along._

"With a lack of success."

"Yes, lord."

"To be expected. The Black Temple was once sacred to the Light, but no longer. It cannot protect you now. You showed good initiative, but the right method for the wrong goal. You must find the magic given to you by the Lady of Pain."

"I tried," Tascha began.

"You sought within yourself the way to a source of power outsides yourself. You need to seek within yourself for the power hidden in _you_." The Betrayer paced in front of her.

"I understand that," she said.

"Not truly, or you wouldn't have turned to the teachings of your church."

Tascha took a long sip of the juice. Humor him. Her best course of action for now. "It seemed the best way," she said at last.

"It was habit, and laziness of thought. What the Lady of Pain gave you doesn't fit the path you're accustomed to traveling. You must create a new one. As I said before, the right method, but the wrong goal."

He sounded like one of the lecturing fathers. The Betrayer didn't requiring long-winded phrasings of questions the way they did, at least.

"How?"

Illidan ceased pacing. "That is what I'm going to show you. Stand, and bare your arms."

Tascha obeyed, pushing her shirtsleeves to her elbows. The worn linen felt slick from dirt and sweat. There was no glow this time, but the razorvine tattoo reappeared on her skin. She touched one of the blue-green leaves with a finger. No change in texture, nothing she could feel, but the vines looked _real_.

"You are familiar with using an object as a focus in meditation, are you not?"

"Yes, but I haven't – "

"This is your focus." Illidan cupped his hands around her wrists, moved them along her arms. Tascha kept from flinching by force of will. Having him this close was unnerving. "Use it as you were taught to use a more physical object." He stepped back.

"You may begin."

Begin? With him hovering over her? _No pressure, my lord, none at all_. She turned away from Illidan slightly and dropped her gaze to the tattoo. Razorvine. It had grown all over the buildings in the part of Sigil called the Hive. The heart-shaped leaves looked delicate, but anyone caught in them would be cut to ribbons.

Blue-green. Odd choice for a tattoo color. Why hadn't the Lady of Pain made it the plant's natural black? There was something soothing about this shade, Tascha had to admit. Like watching the water of a lake. It drew her eyes.

A faint luminescence gilded the pattern of vine and leaves now. It flowed around her wrists and up her arms. Tascha could see it beneath her shirt.

Power surged through her, not the golden warmth of the Light, but the silvery force of winter.

Tascha gasped. The power sank away.

"Well done." The Betrayer smile's had nothing mocking or condescending about it, and Tascha wondered if he looked that way all the time before his transformation. "An excellent first attempt."

"Thank you." Tascha swayed, steadied herself. "How did you –"

"My vision extends beyond that of any other being. I can see magic – energy, power -- as clearly as I see you." He frowned, and Tascha wondered what she had done. He shook his head. "Try again. Maintain contact longer."

Finding the power was easier. Holding onto it was not. She repeated the exercise under Illidan's observation until her eyes felt hot coals and her head rang like the Cathedral's bells. At the end, though, she could keep hold for a count of twenty before the power slipped free.

"I'm trying to grasp the wind," Tascha murmured. She was tired to her bones, but the sensations the Lady of Pain's gift imparted were oddly invigorating. "A very cold one."

"Magic often feels thus. Your comparison is not unique, but it proves you are on the right path. I'm quite pleased. We can advance to the next step."

_She_ had done all the work, but _he_ was pleased. "What do you want me to do?"

"Defend yourself."

The Temple's aura pressed down on her. Tascha fumbled with the alien power, trying to wield it as she would the Light. It refused to bend to her will and nearly twisted free. The darkness receded. Tascha looked at Illidan. "Lord –"

He struck again. And again, and again, battering aside her attempts to shield herself with frightening ease. "You are not trying," he said during one of the momentary respites. He looked more demonic, less the night elf.

"I _am._" Too rude a tone. She didn't care. She was exhausted

"Not hard enough."

The attack this time was ferocious. Wave after wave of oppressive darkness crashed down, overwhelming to the point of physical agony. In desperation, still holding onto the Lady's gift, Tascha grabbed for the Light and flung it at Illidan.

The assault ended abruptly.

"How did you manage _that_?"

Illidan sounded… surprised. Incredulous. Manage what? She couldn't explain when she didn't know what he was talking about. Tascha straightened, arms wrapped around her.

"Pain is an excellent teacher, lord."

She wished the words unsaid the instant they left her lips. Her vision was blurry, but she could still see him towering over her. The glow of his eyes narrowed to slits. Tascha braced for another attack.

"Indeed. Particularly if allowed to run its full course. Do not heal yourself, little bird. If you peck me again, I won't be so lenient."

He took hold of her wrist. "It is time you were formally placed in Lady Malande's care."

His magic whisked them away to another room. Its occupant, a blood elf woman in grey-green robes, curtseyed deeply to Illidan.

"All is ready, my lord, as you requested." Tascha remembered that voice.

"Good. Remember my instructions, Lady Malande." He fixed his gaze on Tascha. You will be summoned again in due time."

He disappeared.

"Be welcome in this hall."

Lady Malande was Gatheos' opposite: snow-colored hair bound in a crown of braids, milky skin, pale grey eyes that flickered a ghostly green in the shifting lamplight. She clasped Tascha's hands in her own. Tascha started, but didn't pull away. There was something comforting about such an ordinary gesture, and she was too drained to search for ulterior motives.

"It is good to see you have found favor in our lord's eyes. To assist in his vision is a great honor."

Tascha couldn't think of a response. An honor. She supposed her treatment could be viewed in that light. If Lady Malande was disappointed in her silence, she gave no sign. "This way," she said, and led Tascha through a curtained side archway into another suite of rooms. They all shared the same opulence Tascha now associated with blood elves, but it was the sunken-floor bathing pool in the last and largest that caught her attention. Faint wisps of steam rose up from the water. Pink, yellow and white flower petals floated on its surface Tascha folded her arms about herself, embarrassingly aware of her grimly, smelly state. Her last bath had been over a week ago.

"Cleansing the body can heal as well as soothe." Lady Malande waved a hand. "Indulge as long as you see fit."

It was the most polite order Tascha had ever heard. She shucked off her clothing in a heap at her feet and eased herself into the water. It swirled around her in a constant gentle current, perfumed by the scents from the flower petals.

"There are steps at the other end," Lady Malande said smoothly, "and soaps in niches on either side, as well." She paused as a female blood elf dressed in dull red and black padded in through one curtain-draped archway, scooped up Tascha's discarded clothes and left through another.

"Romaria will use them to find something for you while you're being measured for new garments."

"New?"

"Lord Illidan was quite specific about his commands. We shall speak more of them later." With a warm smile that made Tascha want to trust her against her better judgment, Lady Malande followed after her servant. Tascha waited until she was out of sight, then turned to the business of bathing. She scrubbed and rinsed until her skin was pink and her hair squeaked between her fingers, then leaned back against the pool's wall and let the water's heat soak into her bones, soothing away some of the pain. The heat was a soporific as well; Tascha fought to keep her eyes open.

The scuffle of leather on the room's pebbled floor jarred her to awareness. She looked up to see Romaria returning with two more blood elves, both laden with towels. Romaria carried a rather large sewing basket. "Lady Malande will be here shortly," Romaria said. "Get out. It is time for your fitting." She jerked her head in Tascha's direction "Dry her off."

"I can manage –" Tascha protested. The blood elves didn't listen, pulling her the rest of the way up the stairs with surprising strength. One began working on her hair, the other her body, both as dispassionate as if she were a doll. Romaria took a length of gold ribbon from the sewing basket and began measuring her, barking out numbers that wrote themselves on the ribbon and ordering to Tascha to hold out her arms, now hold them up, turn, no, _this _ way. At last one attendant shook out a sky-blue towel – which proved to be a robe - -and wrapped it around her. Made of the same material as the bedding, it clung like a second skin. Tascha clutched the front closed. "There's a _belt_," the blood elf said, and knotted it around her.

"You'll have to make do with your own boots." Romaria knelt, and the ribbon wound around Tascha's bare feet. She reached into the basket and pulled out Tascha's battered boots. "Nothing in stores even close."

"Unless you want to ask one of the she-orcs," tittered one of her companions.

"Tareyn, such insults to our lord's guest are insults to our lord."

The blood elf's head snapped up. "Lady Malande, I didn't mean –"

Lady Malande strode over to them. "What you meant is irrelevant. Your jest is in poor taste. Remove your own, and go help Kasz in the netherdrake stables."

Tareyn's roses-and-cream complexion paled. She tugged off her shoes, placed them in front of Malande with a bow, and left. Lady Malande gazed coolly at her remaining subordinates.

"I trust there will be no further unpleasantness. Ah. You are finished. Report to Jarantha." Romaria and her companion bowed and disappeared through the nearest curtained doorway.

Malande turned back to Tascha, tilting her head. "That color suits you. I will suggest it to Jarantha. Everyday garments will be ready more quickly, the gowns Lord Illidan requested a bit longer. In the end, he will be pleased. ."

Again, to Tascha the safest response for her seemed to be no response; she became very interested in pulling on her boots. The entire exchange between Tareyn and Lady Malande had seemed unreal (what was a netherdrake?), and these comments about the Betrayer even moreso. Why would he care what she looked like?

"Follow me, Tascha," Lady Malande said. "I wish to speak with you, and there is something that will most interest you."

_Unless it's a way back to Stormwind, I doubt it_. She fell in step besides Lady Malande. From the bathing pool room they entered a winding corridor. They walked for a time in silence.

"You are a priest of the Light," Lady Malande said at last. "A noble calling, and one few care to answer. You are a pupil of Lord Illidan – yes, he trusted me with that knowledge." She stopped, her gaze intense. "But there is other learning as well. I, too, am a priest and student, of the knowledge and power that is the Light's counterpart, as close to it as the indrawing of breath to the outdrawing. I would be happy to continue your instruction."

The Shadow. Some of the magic Tascha knew it – she had used it during her fight with the gnolls. But in general her teachers stressed how dangerous it was. _Life is a dance_, Brother Kristoff had said once during a lecture, _and the Light is the music we move to._

Shadow-magic left her feeling unpartnered, with two left feet.

"Your offer is very kind," Tascha said, "but I've no aptitude."

Lady Malande looked at her. "Ah," she said at last. "Well, perhaps that can be changed." She smiled and began walking again. "My lord informs me you assisted in both the library and the infirmary in the Cathedral of Light. Unfortunately, at this time, it wouldn't be safe to permit you access to the Temple's library. Your assistance in our infirmary would be minor things -- bandage-making, inventory and the like – to offset your more rigorous instruction. Lord Illidan is aware that incessant training does more harm than good, and that students need other activities to occupy their time."

"I see." Some things never changed. Choice placements dangled in front of possible allies, long-desired privileges offered to the lower orders in exchange for future favors – the backbone of political wrangling. In her case, the chance to leave her 'birdcage' in exchange for minor menial tasks. What Lady Malande would gain from it? More of the Betrayer's favor, the opportunity to one-up the rest of his advisors?

"Not yet, but you will soon. Ah, here we are." Lady Malande stopped before a crystalline door, placed her palm where a doorknob would be. The door slid to one side, and she gestured Tascha inside.

"Our apothecary," she explained. Unnecessarily – the odors struck Tascha at once. "You have one like it in the Cathedral?"

"Nothing like this," Tascha breathed, somewhat dazed. Theirs would have fit in here three times over, and Shaina would possibly kill for this much shelving space. Distilling equipment, work tables fully outfitted with chopping boards, scales and measuring spoons and eyedroppers, knives and burners, barrels and bins of herbs fresh and dried.

Lady Malande led her further in, pausing at one of the work tables. "Samir, here, is starting on a sungrass infusion –"

"That's not sungrass," Tascha said automatically. "It's Khadagar's Whisker. Sungrass is sweeter. It's not an infusion, and he hasn't started, this is the second stage of a poison-neutralizing ointment." She smiled. "You can tell by the sort-of licorice undertone."

Both blood elves stared at her.

"Your…guest is correct, Lady," Samir replied. He looked perturbed. "The sungrass is finished. This is the first of the neutralizer batches."

Lady Malande looked thoughtful. "You are able to do this – discern its properties and stage in processing – with any herb?"

"With the ones I know, yes."

"Indeed. Shall we put your skills to the test?"

What followed was less a test than an interrogation. Lady Malande grilled her on every bit of greenery in the chamber: what was this one's use, when did was it picked for best efficiency, was it used dried or fresh? The majority Tascha knew; some she did not, and admitted it. Finally Lady Malande stopped, and turned to her.

"Lord Illidan said you told him you worked in the infirmary. Why didn't you tell him of this?"

"Lord Illidan didn't ask."

Silence.

"Rolling bandages or counting bed sheets would be a waste of your talents. I believe Lord Illidan would allow you to work here, should you ask. Through me, of course."

"I'll have to think about it."

"Not too long, I hope." The smile Lady Malande gave her was warm and friendly and utterly false. "But now, I believe it is time for you to return to your quarters. Dinner will be served soon. Perhaps you'll have an answer by then." A light touch on Tascha's shoulder, the familiar surge of shielding magic. "There. That will make your walk back more enjoyable."

A trio of blood elves – blood knights, by their armor – provided her escort this time. The path they took was just as confusing as before. Thanks to Malande's spell the Temple's aura didn't affect her, and Tascha was able to ponder the Lady's parting words. She was still mulling them over when the birdcage's door closed behind her.

A deadline. Malande wanted an answer as soon as possible. Attempts to stall wouldn't work.

Tascha sank down on her bed and rubbed her eyes. She didn't want to work in the apothecary, and that was that. Lady Malande wouldn't take kindly to a "no" but if the Betrayer valued her as much as he professed to, he'd keep his advisor in check.

Wouldn't he?

Help me 

Tascha's head snapped up. "What?"  
Help me please.

A voice. In her head? "Who are you? What do you want?" Was this a trick, a trap from Illidan or Malande?

Lycandaul. 

"You're dead!"

I know. The sensation of hysterical laugher. I displeased Mother Sharazz, and she decided to amuse herself. Sealed me in. I starved.

Tascha glanced at where the door to her 'cage' had been, then the alcove leading to the necessary, and shuddered in revulsion. That explained things. "Why aren't you…" she trailed off, not knowing what afterlife blood elves possessed.

Can't leave room – the Shrine of Lost Souls will consume me. A feeling of terror shot through her. Not her own, Tascha, realized, but his.

Something occurred to her. "Why didn't you talk to me before?"

Tried. You didn't hear me. Free me. A draenei priestess lived here once. She performed rites in private. Only reason I escaped the Shrine. More terror, the sensation of a shudder. A ghost of her power remains. You're a priest. Use it.

He wanted … what? An exorcism? Something else? "I've never done any such thing. I don't know how!"

Try. Please. Pleading.

"It may take time."

All I have is time. Humor now, dark and despairing. Don't care. I'll help _you_. I know things about the Temple. About Illidan. _Help me!_

Tascha ran a hand through her hair. Every instinct screamed it was wrong – unspeakably, horribly wrong – to let someone suffer like this. But she wasn't trained in dealing with the dead; she knew the theories, but practical, hands-on knowledge was beyond her. What power she had was laughable in the face of the forces that permeated the Black Temple. Illidan hadn't done anything to prevent Lycandaul's agonizing death. He must have approved. Perhaps Lycandaul's ghostly state was known, too, just another part of his torture. Ignoring him was the smart, sensible thing to do.

And yet…

Red lines glowed on the opposite wall. Tascha fell silent as the door reappeared, and Romaria stepped through. . She watched as a second black-and-red clad servant wheeled in a cart laden with dishes, unload them onto the table, and leave. Romaria looked her up and down.

"Lady Malande sends her regards, and wishes an answer."

She didn't want to do this. But she couldn't do anything else and live with herself-- however short her life might be, if she were caught. .

"Tell Lady Malande my answer is yes."


End file.
